“No doubt, they are hand in glove in the fur trade, and the Commissaire has La Barre’s ear just now. He rode by yonder in the carriage a moment since, and you might think from his bows he was the Governor. And this marriage? when does it take place?”
“On Monsieur’s safe return from the great West.”
The smile came back to his face.
“Not so bad that, for ’tis a long journey, and might be delayed. I travel with him, you know, and we depart at daybreak. What else did this Chevet have to say?”
“Only a threat that if ever you came near me again his fingers would feel your throat, Monsieur. He spoke of hate between himself and your father.”
The eyes upon mine lost their tolerant smile, and grew darker, and I marked the fingers of his hand clinch.
“That was like enough, for my father was little averse to a quarrel, although he seldom made boast of it afterwards. And so this Hugo Chevet threatened 41 me! I am not of the blood, Mademoiselle, to take such things lightly. Yet wait––why came you to me with such a tale? Have you no friends?”
“None, Monsieur,” I answered gravely, and regretfully, “other than the nuns to whom I went to school, and they are useless in such a case. I am an orphan under guardianship, and my whole life has been passed in this convent, and Chevet’s cabin on the river. My mother died at my birth, my father was a soldier on the frontier, and I grew up alone among strangers. Scarcely have I met any save the rough boatmen, and those couriers du bois in my uncle’s employ. There was no one else but you, Monsieur––no one. ’Twas not immodesty which caused me to make this appeal, but a dire need. I am a helpless, friendless girl.”
“You trust me then?”
“Yes, Monsieur; I believe you a man of honor.”